Letting Go
by northernexposure
Summary: Missing scene for 9.7. Very short. EDIT - this has now evolved into a longer speculation on the end of S9.
1. Chapter 1

**Letting Go**

**Summary:** a missing scene, post-hospital, pre-them arriving on the grid, justified (in my head) because Ruth didn't arrive with her overnight bag.

**A/N:** I have found it difficult to write anything H/R related for the past week or so because to me, it honestly feels like the end of the line for them. And the worst of it is, I can completely believe it – certainly from Ruth's perspective. Harry not properly listening to her over Lucas was horribly reminiscent of the Maudsley 'fixated' moment. I can believe that she's had enough. So I don't know if this little story below will continue, or be happy. It could. But it could equally stay where it is. I'd like to continue it, but I'm not sure I can.

* * *

She could feel him behind her as she took her bag and walked away, but she didn't pause.

"Ruth, let me take you home."

"I'm going to get a cab."

"You won't find one. It's bedlam out there."

She didn't even look at him as she said, "Then I'll take the bus."

"Ruth-" He tried to take her arm. She felt his fingers on her bicep, warm even through her layers of clothing, and anger surged through her. It multiplied as Harry said, "Don't be ridiculous. Come on, just let me-"

Ruth wrenched herself out of his grasp. "For god's sake, Harry," she hissed, "Leave me alone."

But outside, she found that he was right. There were no cabs. He followed her as she made her way to the bus stop and tried to work out how to get home. She wasn't anywhere familiar, and it was approaching rush hour. He stood behind her, and stayed there until she admitted defeat.

She punished him by saying nothing for the entire journey, staring blindly out of the window at the streets and homes and families they passed by. Harry killed the engine as they pulled up outside her block. Ruth undid her seatbelt and opened the door in one smooth movement, not even glancing in his direction.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Later, if I feel up to it."

"Ruth-"

She slammed the car door, cutting him off, but heard him get out as she hurried up the steps.

"Ruth, wait."

Harry surprised her by moving more quickly than she would have given him credit for. In a second he was behind her again. He caught her hand, and she yelped in genuine pain as his fingers tightened over the burns that scarred it. He let go immediately.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry."

"Just go," she grated, through gritted teeth as she fumbled with her door key in the lock. "Harry, just - _go_."

But he didn't. Harry surprised her again by forcing himself through the door behind her, so close that she could feel his weight at her back. She turned on him as he shut the door, looking at him for the first time.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I don't want to leave you alone."

"I told you – I'm fine."

"Self-evidently, that's not true."

Ruth threw her hands up, agitated, angry. She didn't want to see his face, so she turned her back again, but she could still hear him breathing, heavily, as he watched her.

"Get out," she said, very low and meaning it. "_Get… OUT_."

"No."

Her disbelief was complete. Harry Pearce was standing in her flat, unwelcome, and unwilling to leave. What recourse did she have? None. What recourse had she ever had, to him, to this life? _None_.

"Ruth, I stand by what I said earlier. I believe you still blame me for George. And I don't think I quite realised, before, that…" She was irritated to hear his voice crack a little before he tailed off. He tried again. "And we need to-"

"We need to _what_?" She cut him off, forcefully. Something inside her had snapped loose and was whirling in her gut, a slowly-building tornado of pent-up rage. Ruth turned back again, and saw him flinch at her stony face. "You didn't realise_ what_?"

Harry blinked. "You loved him," he said, simply. "You still do."

She stared at him. The silence stretched between them, cold and heavy, until she whispered, "You didn't realise I _loved_ him?"

"No, I didn't mean-"

"Well, what did you think, Harry? That I'd shacked up with the first man to cross my path? That I'd walked out on all my friends and family, turned up on the beach in Cyprus and thought to myself, 'Oh, he'll do?'"

"No, Ruth – please… That's not-"

Ruth began to shake. She was cold, and she felt as if she was staring at a stranger.

"You have no idea what it was like for me," she said. "You've never even asked. Do you even care, Harry? Or did you think that coming back here, being back in Britain – did you think that would just erase everything I went through when I left? Did you think what I lost was so easily replaceable with what I found?"

He shook his head, dumbly, staring at his feet. "Ruth, when you left, I-"

But she didn't want to hear what he'd gone through. She spoke over him, loud enough to quell the tremor in her voice. "I was alone. Completely, totally alone, with what I thought was a broken heart."

His eyes snapped to hers, as she'd known they would. "What you _thought _was…"

"God, how I longed for you back then, Harry," Ruth said, and she calculated the weight of the knife in her words. "I thought I loved you. But it turned out I just hadn't found out what love was."

She literally saw the blood drain from his face, a physical action that left him grey-skinned and instantly older. Harry stared at her, lips parted, his eyes blank with profound shock.

The tornado whipped loose, ripping into her innards. Ruth turned and, bending double, screamed. It was a gutteral, incoherent yell that tore at her throat and went on and on and on, and when that one ended she began another, screaming for everything, for everyone she had lost, had hurt, had deserted, had maimed. Screaming for herself because the scream was all that remained.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I at least had to connect the dots between the scream and the Grid. I do actually now have an outcome in mind for this, but still not sure I should write it.

Reviews really are loved, by the way…

* * *

Ruth's scream went on and on. Harry watched her, bunched over herself, as the sound of wounds poured into the confined space of her hallway. For a moment he didn't know what to do. Then he moved, trying to grasp her by the shoulders.

She shook him off and stepped away, abruptly falling silent. He didn't try to touch her again. Ruth retched suddenly, chest heaving, and Harry thought she was going to vomit, but she didn't. She put one hand against the wall to steady herself. After a couple of moments she straightened up, though she still didn't turn to face him.

"Ruth," he said. "Is there someone I can call for you?"

She made a sound in her throat, and it took him a moment to realise she was laughing. "There's no one," she said, voice hoarse. "Just go, Harry."

"I can't leave you like this," he said, to her back.

"I am going to have a shower, I am going to change, and then I am going back to the Grid," she stated, with eerie calm.

Under the circumstances, it seemed to him that the Grid was the best place for her. At least she'd have people around her. It scared him to admit that he didn't know what she'd do if there weren't.

"I'll wait. I'll drive you."

Ruth didn't answer. After a moment, she walked away, leaving him there, and another moment after that he heard the sound of running water.

Harry didn't move from where he stood. The sound of her scream still echoed in his ears, in his head, in his heart. At least it drowned out the memory of what she'd said. What it meant. What she'd told him in the graveyard, then… it seemed he hadn't truly understood it. And now he did. George hadn't been a second choice. He hadn't been a substitute. He'd been the real thing. Her life, in Cyprus – that had been the real thing. And anything else after it was empty. As now, apparently, was everything that had come before.

Harry saw now how absurd it had been to imagine they could go back to where they'd been then - how hopeless it was to even approximate it. How ridiculous his proposal seemed now, and how bitterly he regretted giving voice to the impulse that had made him speak.

What had John Bateman said? How much easier it was to bear pain when you knew you deserved it. The cruelty of Ruth's blunt words, and her calculating application of them – that would stay with him for a long time. The Ruth he had known, back then, would never have said such a thing, done such a thing, even if she'd felt it. But who did he have to blame but himself? He'd brought her to MI5 in the first place, initiated her to this life of lies. Because of him she had fled, through his actions she had been forced to return. His decisions had robbed her of what she had, what she wanted, what she deserved. He'd made her bitter, and then made her numb.

He was still standing in the same spot when she emerged, freshly dressed. Ruth indicated no surprise at him still being there. The indifference she exuded as she pulled on her coat and walked past him almost cut deeper than her earlier declaration.

Almost.

Later, when Malcolm left his office, Harry watched the two old friends greet each other. Ruth pulled Malcolm into a tight embrace, and even with the glass and the distance, Harry could see how white her knuckles grew as she clutched him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This just keeps playing on in my head. So here it is, and will continue, probably in short bursts like the previous chapters.

This has speculations for 9.8, so **SPOILER ALERT **if you avoided the trailer.

* * *

Ruth works late. She is tired - _exhausted_, still aching, despite a day's distance, from the beating she took from the French assassin. Her hands are sore. She takes care not to find herself alone again with Harry. She has not thought about their confrontation in her hallway; what she said. It does not signify.

Beth is already at home when Ruth arrives. The younger woman tries to be sweet, offers to make Ruth something to eat, something to drink. Wonders if she wants to talk. Ruth doesn't. Beth eventually offers to give her some space for the night, and Ruth appreciates the offer enough to accept it. Beth packs an overnight bag and heads for a hotel, though not without several concerned glances in her direction, which Ruth does her best to ignore.

Ruth sits in the dark once she has left, savouring the lack of light. The storm in her gut has not diminished, the anger has not subsided. She wonders if she should leave. Just pack a bag, and go. It wouldn't be the first time she has vanished, and there is nothing to keep her here. There is nothing to keep her anywhere.

_How quickly things fall apart. How frequently it happens._

When the doorbell goes, she contemplates not answering it. With the lights off, there is no sign that anyone is in. She assumes it is Harry, but she doesn't want to see him, just as she didn't want to see him earlier. What more could there be to say? She has a sudden flash, of his eyes, so dark and empty in his blanched face.

The doorbell goes again, and again, and then finally, she hears a scraping at the lock, as if someone is trying to break in. The maelstrom rises again and she is incensed that once again he will not take no for an answer. She goes to the door, yanking it open.

But it isn't Harry. It's the man who used to be Lucas.

Later, as she sits tied to yet another chair, he tries to apologise to her. He says that he knows she's been through a lot, that he doesn't want to hurt her. That all he wants is to get the woman he loves back, safe. The Chinese have her, he says. And he needs that file. And this is the only way Harry will understand. A straight swap. The woman Harry loves, to save the one John does.

The irony of it all delights the sliver of her that is attuned, now, only to such perfect cruelties. Ruth tries to tell him that it's hopeless, that Harry won't make the trade, and even if he wanted to he knows that she won't thank him for it, would think it was the grossest dereliction of duty. And, though she doesn't say this aloud, she _hurt_ him. She plunged that knife in with as much deliberate anger as she shot the Frenchman. Harry Pearce cannot save her: not from her captor, not from herself.

Part of her doesn't want to be saved. Part of her wants to slip away from all this, with the sort of finality that cannot be reversed, no matter what tricks the gods of fate conspire to turn.

She hears the half of the conversation that takes place from her end. There is a deadline, and when the phone goes down, she wonders what Harry is doing, at that moment, on the other end of the line. She wonders if he's staring at her desk, her empty chair. She wonders if he is calling time on her life.

And still, she cannot feel a thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** So happy to see Malcolm back on the Grid. I hope he's a permanent return for S10. Meanwhile, I can feel this veering away from the screen, which I don't want to do but at the same time feel is necessary. We'd never get a scene like this on the show… and yet I hope it feels as if we could.

* * *

Malcolm finds it strange to be back on the Grid. It is so familiar, and yet so different. _The more things change, the more things stay the same_. Really, his operational point of being there at all has been fulfilled – he's done what was required of him, fulfilled his duty to Harry Pearce and the Service. He could leave and go back to his mother, who is currently enjoying herself in a little B&B in Morecambe, none the wiser as to her son's exploits – now, or ever.

But something makes him think he can do more good here, especially now. The Grid is quiet, empty, even though Dimitri, Beth and Tariq are at their posts, working with controlled haste. Ruth's chair is empty, and despite his absence it is clear to Malcolm that she has been as important in this room as she ever was.

He brushes his fingers over the edge of her deserted, tidy desk, and looks towards Harry's office. Twenty minutes have passed since the call came in from John with the information that he'd taken Ruth. Malcolm wonders what has happened between Harry and Ruth while he has been away: the fact that she was taken from her own flat, that Beth (who feels so guilty, now, so needlessly) is her housemate, tells him that nothing very much can have altered. And yet, it was Ruth that Lucas chose to take…

Through the glass, he sees Harry rub a hand through his hair. He'd asked for a few minutes alone, and Malcolm is loath to leave him longer. The deadline is short. He has not informed the rest of the team of John's demands, only that she has been taken.

Malcolm slides the door open and steps inside. Harry looks up at him, and there is something dangerous in his eyes. It is not recklessness, though. Harry is bereft, but attempting to hide it, and for the first time, Malcolm feels concern.

"What are you going to do?" Malcolm asks, as Harry moves around his desk.

Harry doesn't answer immediately. And then he says, "Nothing legitimate."

"Do you believe that he will kill her?"

Harry looks him in the eye. "Yes."

"You really think he's capable?"

Harry turns his head to look through the glass, eyes resting on Ruth's empty station. "It's surprising, you know, Malcolm. What you find yourself willing to do, for…"

Malcolm watches his former colleague, and realises he has grown older, much older. Harry is so weary it is palpable.

"If there's a way out, Ruth will find it."

Harry nods. "I've put CO19 on standby. The rest of the team are searching for them. We've got two hours until he calls with the location of the meet. But he knows us. He knows how we work, our methods. We won't find him until he wants to be found. And Ruth-" He cuts himself off, looking away from her desk, abruptly.

Malcolm lets a pause develop, before he says, "Harry. Forgive me if this is prying, but… you and Ruth. Are you – the two of you…"

Harry glances at him before returning to his desk. "No," he says, shortly. "No, we're not."

"But then, why did he-"

Harry makes a harsh sound in his throat. "He's known me a long time, Malcolm. I don't think I have hidden my affections as well as I might."

"And what about Ruth?"

He watches as Harry puts a hand to his head, briefly, as if trying to brush something away. "Malcolm, please."

"Sorry. Sorry. I'll go to see if I can help the others. An extra pair of eyes, and so on."

He has his hand on the door handle when Harry speaks again.

"I asked her to marry me."

Malcolm freezes, turning back. Harry has his hands in his pockets and is staring at her desk again.

"It was a couple of months ago now. After Ros's funeral. She said no, of course. But I thought-"

"You thought what?"

Harry shrugs, a jerky movement borne of deep turmoil. "I thought it was my timing. Turns out – it was me." Harry rubs a hand over his face. "If she dies now, Malcolm… if she dies now, she'll die hating me."

Malcolm feels his eyebrows lift. "Ruth, hate? No. She's incapable."

"You haven't seen her…" Harry clears his throat, glancing down at his desk with a frown. "She's so angry. I've never seen her so angry, or so hurt."

Malcolm watches Harry, his hunched shoulders, his lowered head. He knows, instinctively, that this is the first time his old friend has said any of this aloud. He wonders if he's ever even had this length of conversation with Ruth about what is between them. He guesses probably not.

"Harry… people grieve in different ways, at different times. And Ruth has more to grieve than most. It's less than two years-"

"I know. I _know_. She hasn't forgiven me for George, whatever she says. She hasn't forgiven me for taking away that life, her family. She never will. She can't, not if he meant as much to her as–"

Malcolm shakes his head as he trails off. "Harry. Knowing Ruth, it's more likely she hasn't forgiven herself. And has it ever occurred to you that she's still grieving _you_?"

Harry looks up. "What?"

"She loved and lost twice. And the second was someone who died because of her connection to you, whom she loved first. Don't you think that cut her in two?"

Harry shakes his head. "She doesn't… she never…"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"She told me-"

Malcolm interrupts. "The day after you two had dinner, all those years ago, I've never seen her so happy, Harry. Her smile…" He shakes his head. "That my gossiping ruined that for her, for you – that's been one of my biggest regrets. That doesn't just seep away. It gets hidden, it gets repressed. But it doesn't die."

"She says she can't feel anything."

"How very Ruth. I can almost hear the silent second half of that statement. _Better that than feeling too much_."

Harry is silent for another moment, his hands curled into fists, resting atop his desk. "It's all immaterial, now."

"What do you mean?"

"I know how to free her, Malcolm. The only way. And you won't like it, but I need your help."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Trust me… and the devil is always in the details.

* * *

Harry's jaw ached. He stood in his office, looking out across the Grid, and savoured the sharp discomfort. He was perversely glad to feel something physical for a change. In his hand was his mobile phone. The call would come any minute, now.

It had taken time to convince Malcolm that they should put his plan into action, though Harry thought the former spook knew from the first that it was the only way. It wasn't an elegant end to his career, perhaps, but Harry knew it would work. Sometimes age and experience could win out over youthful ruthlessness. And perhaps there was still a way to beat the devil, even now.

But really, for Harry, the only vital aspect was removing Ruth from harm's way. Malcolm had looked at him in horror, had argued, had fought… but had finally acquiesced to one simple truth. It was Ruth. There really was nothing else to say after that.

In his hand, the phone began to vibrate. Harry reached out and wrapped his knuckles, once, on the window. Malcolm looked up from where he sat at Ruth's desk. Their eyes met as Harry put the phone to his ear. Malcolm pulled on a headset.

"Harry Pearce."

"_Do you have it?_"

It was funny, really, how quickly Harry had dismissed the notion that the man on the other end of the line was Lucas. Lucas North was dead. This was John, and Harry did not know him at all.

He took a deep breath. "No. I don't."

He heard the harsh snap of Berreta being cocked. "_Harry…_"

"It is impossible for me to hand over Albany now. I do not have it in my possession."

"_You should have made sure you did_."

"You didn't give me enough time. Killing Ruth will get you nowhere. You'll lose the only leverage you have. Maya will die. Are you prepared for that?"

"_You're playing with me, Harry, and I don't like it_. _Don't underestimate me_."

"I do not have the file. But I know where it is."

"_Tell me_."

"That won't work. It requires a direct visual identification. Of a specific person. Me. What do you think tipped Malcolm off so instantly?"

"_Then-_"

Harry cut him off, turning the tables. "Listen to me. Here's a new deal for you, John. And _this_ is your last chance to save Maya. A straight swap, yes. But the swap will be Ruth, for me. And then I will take you to retrieve Albany."

There was a pause. "_You're bluffing_."

"I've agreed to give you the file. Ruth is useless to you. Let her go, and you save Maya. Hurt her, and Maya dies."

"_It's a lie_. _You're buying time_."

"I'm buying Ruth. And you clearly know what she means to me. So it's your choice. Save Maya, or kill her. The ball's in your court."

There was a silence. In it, Harry strained to hear any sign of Ruth in the background, but there was none.

"_Come alone_," John said. "_If I see any sign of snipers, of back up, of anything… I'll kill her. Understand_?"

"Let me bring Malcolm. She'll need someone."

Another pause. "_Only Malcolm. And I'm warning you, Harry, if I find you wearing a wire… I'm a good shot at distance, too._"

"No tricks," Harry told him. "My word."

John rang off, and a second later a text arrived, populated only with a series of coordinates.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This is coming out far more easily than I thought it would.

* * *

Ruth stared at John in disbelief. "No. He can't, he – he wouldn't."

He came toward her, yanking her to her feet. Ruth's hands were tied behind her back, making her awkward. "Well, he is. You'll be free, soon. Come on. I don't have much time."

Her mind was racing as he pushed her toward the exit of the warehouse. He wouldn't do it, would he? He couldn't. Not for her. Harry Pearce wouldn't trade the security of the United Kingdom for a single life. Especially not hers. Not now.

_But what if he does? What if he _does_? Can you live with that? Can you-_

John slid the warehouse door open, and for a moment Ruth was blinded by the light from outside. She saw him squint, too, and took a chance.

Lunging forward, Ruth fled out of the door, struggling to stay upright with her balance so impinged. She heard John shout behind her, the sound of his footsteps instantly faster than hers. The blow came out of nowhere as he blindsided her with the butt of his handgun, slamming it into her cheekbone. She screamed, stumbling in the dust, plunging headfirst to the ground. At the last minute she twisted, avoiding smashing her face into the dirt. She kicked out at him with her feet, trying to push him off balance, but it was no good – it was in no sense a fair fight. He knelt on her with one knee, the other bracing himself against the dirt. She felt the barrel of the gun forcing its way beneath her chin.

"What are you doing," he rasped. "I told you, I'm going to let you go."

"I can't," she gasped, words hiccupping between her stolen breath and damaged jaw. "I can't let you get hold of that file. I can't let you give it to the Chinese-"

John dragged her to her feet, shaking her like a terrier. "Christ. After everything! After everything serving your country has put you through. Give it up, Ruth."

She was sobbing now, in desperation rather than in fear. She couldn't do this alone. And there was no one else, here, or coming, that would stop it.

"I have to believe in something bigger than myself. I have to. Or what… what's the point?"

He stared at her for a second, and she thought she saw a spark of recognition in his eyes. The next moment it was gone, replaced by the increasingly hard expression she had come to expect from John Bateman.

He dragged her toward the car, keeping the gun to her head all the way. "I was going to let you sit in the passenger seat," he told her. "But now…"

The boot wasn't any more spacious than the last time she was in it. He pulled away fast, wheels spinning hard enough to rock her. Her head smashed against the metal wall, and not for the first time in her life, Ruth wished it had been harder. Hard enough to knock her unconscious.

They didn't go far, and Harry must have already been waiting there, because there was no pause between John pulling up and getting out of the car. He opened the boot and ordered her to get out, but she couldn't do it alone, not with her hands tied. When her feet hit the ground she looked around, but couldn't work out where they were. Another deserted work site. There was dirt everywhere, muddy after a recent downpour.

Several hundred meters away was another car. Harry stood beside its open door. He'd removed his jacket, his tie. Her heart sank, her last hope deserting her. There was no sign of movement around them for at least a mile. No possibility of the unannounced arrival of backup. Harry was here alone. No, not alone. There was someone else, sitting in the car. Malcolm?

John stood behind his own open car door, his handgun on display. "Start walking," he shouted, loud enough for Harry to hear him. He put his fingers to the small of her back, pushing her away.

Ruth watched Harry walk towards her. She moved too, stumbing a little, boots slipping against the mud. Her sight was blurred, from dirt and pain and a sudden wash of tears. They drew closer, and as they passed, paused.

"This is wrong," she said, desperately. "Harry, this is wrong."

"No," he told her. "Everything else has been wrong. This is right." Harry looked over her head, to where John watched them like a hawk.

"You're betraying your country. For me."

He looked down at her. "I've never found it easy to say what I feel, Ruth. I always find it easier to do. So here I am, doing."

"Doing what?"

He smiled a slightly sad smile, though the light in his eyes was bright. "Preserving what has always been most important to me."

"Keep walking," John barked. "Or I swear, I'll shoot you both from here."

"Harry-"

"Go," he told her, shortly. "Get in the car."

He turned his back on her and walked, without hesitation, toward the car. John held the gun to Harry's head and cuffed him, expertly, with one hand, before forcing him into it. It sped away in a flurry of thrown-up grime. Ruth stared after it, hollowed out.

"Ruth."

She looked up to see Malcolm, standing beside her. His eyes were pained as he reached out to cut the plastic tie around her wrists.

"Malcolm," she whispered. "He can't do it. He can't give him the file."

"Do you really think he would?"

Ruth looked up at him, not comprehending. "I don't-"

Malcolm's lip quivered slightly. "Harry's an old school spy, Ruth. He's still got the original fixtures he got in the 60s."

Ruth stared at him blankly, and Malcolm had to prompt her. "His tooth, Ruth. He's still got the tooth."

The edges of the world faded, just a little. "Cyanide?" She whispered. "A capsule? He's got – "

"It won't even cross John's mind to look for one. He'll search for a wire, a tracker – but not a suicide pill."

Malcolm held her up as her legs buckled. "Oh, god… oh, _god_…"

And suddenly, Ruth could feel. It was as if hell itself had swallowed her whole.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I know this is miniscule… I will try to update throughout today.

* * *

The car careened around a corner, and Harry felt the wheels slide on the wet tarmac. The brakes squealed as they bit. He looked at John, seeing how pale his face was, how anxious, and actually felt a momentary flash of pity.

It faded very quickly.

The car levelled out. Harry looked down at the bonds holding his wrists together. He tested them, but already knew they weren't going to give easily. Lucas – John – knew what he was doing.

"Okay," said, his captor, as he glanced in the rear view mirror to see if they were being followed. "Tell me where to go."

Harry shifted in his seat. "Come on, John," he said, calmly. "Don't be naïve. Did you really think I'd give you Albany?"

The man he'd once thought of as his protégé slammed on the brakes again. Harry's bulk almost smashed against the dash as the car came to a juddering halt.

"Did you ever know where it was?" John asked.

"Not a clue, I'm afraid," Harry said. "Never did know. Never will."

John's hands gripped the wheel, so hard that the skin on his knuckles pulled taut and turned white.

"There's no fool like an old fool, Harry. Don't you know that?"

Harry said nothing, staring out of the window instead. He wondered what Ruth was doing, how she was coping. Malcolm would have explained it to her by now. He hoped she was still fine, still numb. He hoped he hadn't caused her more pain and guilt. But mostly, he hoped now, at the end of it all, that she finally understood how much he loved her. His love was not dependent on hers. It was just a fact, a part of his being that he had lived with for so long that it was second nature to him. He could no more let her die than he could cut out his own heart.

"I told you not to underestimate me," John was saying. "Did you imagine I didn't assume you would try to pull something like this? You're an idiot, Harry. I told the Chinese about our deal. It turns out they'd far rather have an MI5 section head and all his secrets than one, single file."

Harry turned his head, taking in the icy blue of the cold eyes staring at him. "Yes," he said, quietly. "Yes, I thought they might."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I'm not deliberately dragging this out. I'm in the middle of icing a massive celebration cake. The juxtaposition is weird and acute…

* * *

Ruth couldn't keep her fingers still. They twisted around each other where they rested on her lap. Malcolm was driving them back to the Grid. He hadn't interrupted her silence. She knew it wasn't because he didn't have anything to say, but rather that he knew now was not the time to say it. She was grateful for that. She was grateful for him.

"When Lucas realizes he's not going to get the Albany file, he'll try trading Harry instead," she said, finally, into the quiet.

"That's what he's assuming, yes."

"Lucas might not find the cyanide, but the first thing the Chinese will do is a cavity search."

"Yes."

Her vision blurred and she frowned, staring down at her hands. The burns from the iron rose in angry whorls along the heels of her thumbs. She pressed her index finger into one of them, feeling the pain explode beneath her damaged skin.

"It doesn't give us much time," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Lucas will want to make the trade as soon as possible. And Harry won't give them the chance to-" She stopped, the well of horror inside her too deep the look into. "Tell me there's a plan, Malcolm," she whispered.

"Not much of one," he replied, the brutality of his statement softened by his sadness. "We just have to hope we find them in time."

"How could you let him do it?" she asked. "How could you help him…" she drew in a shaky breath. "_Why_?"

"Oh, Ruth," Malcolm said, "You _know_ why."

She shook her head. "I was so cruel, Malcolm. _So _cruel. And I hurt him. God! I _wanted _to."

Malcolm lifted one hand from the steering wheel and reached out for her, hand finding hers, gently. "None of that makes any difference to him, Ruth. He loves you. Don't you understand that?"

And she did. She did understand it, since she had returned she had known it implicitly_. _But wasn't that exactly what made it all so hard to bear? Ruth had thought he'd move on, just as she had tried to. What other option was there? What else could they do? But he hadn't. He hadn't ever moved on from that moment on the docks. He hadn't let her go. And knowing that, discovering that in the aftermath of George's death – that had just further inflamed her guilt, which was already a towering inferno. What was she supposed to do with that? How was she supposed to cope? How could she pick up where they had left off, how could she act as if nothing had changed, when she had inadvertently betrayed the only two men in her life that she had ever been able to see herself make a life with? How could she deserve peace, happiness, contentment, after that? How could she even contemplate striving for those things, with Harry, of all people?

But here he was, sacrificing himself for her, and he would die not knowing that the rage she had inflicted on him had only ever really been meant for herself.

"I don't want to live without him," she said, before she'd even realised the words were in her mind. "I don't… I don't want to live knowing he's not in the world, because of me."

Malcolm sighed. "Funny," he said. "That was his argument, too."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I would send all my lovely reviewers cake if I could! Thank you for sticking with my little updates.

* * *

Harry's mouth hurt. It had been several decades since he'd used the false molar that now held enough poison to kill him in roughly 90 seconds. His gum had grown around it, and getting it out hadn't been pretty. Malcolm hadn't fitted a capsule for a good long while, either. It all added up to considerable discomfort.

He stroked his tongue gently along the offending tooth as he watched John speak on the phone. The conversation was rapid, agitated, and Harry wondered if the game was about to change again.

John had relaxed a little after his body search had turned up no wire, no bug and no tracker. He'd actually seemed surprised, as if he'd expected some sort of trick. And, of course, there was one; it just wasn't the sort that John was expecting. The unrepentant spy in Harry Pearce took perverse pleasure in the knowledge he'd outwitted his opponent.

Harry pondered what to do. Part of him was contemplating cracking the capsule now, which would leave his captor with nothing to trade and at his wit's end. But he was aware of the woman, Maya, and her abject innocence in all this. Removing himself from the equation now would seal her fate. The other option was to wait until after the trade, which would secure the woman's safety. But that would also let John walk away scot-free, which offended Harry's sense of justice. Yet he could not bring himself to sacrifice the woman just for vengeance over John, and in any case, the more time he stretched out, the more time Section D had to find him. Not that Harry was holding out much hope on that score. He'd made his peace with the idea that this was his last hurrah. And really, it wasn't such a bad way to go out. One last mission, pulled off with expert precision. And he'd saved Ruth. Pretty perfect outcome, really.

John hung up the phone and walked toward him. "They're ready," he said. "Get up."

Harry stood. "Have we got far to go? Because honestly, if we have I'd appreciate having my hands free."

The former MI5 agent laughed. "Come on, Harry. What kind of mug do you take me for?"

"The kind whom I used to think had decency running in his veins."

John shook his head. "I spent fifteen years of my life giving as much as I could to this country," he said. "And look where it got me."

Harry looked at him with contempt. "You'll get no sympathy from me. I've seen better men than you end up with less and still not stoop as low as you have. And if you think that fifteen years of service is enough to make up for the lives you took-"

The uppercut sliced into Harry's jaw with a resounding crunch. He bent double as the shock of the blow smashed his teeth together. He held his breath, wondering if, unexpectedly, this was the end, here and now.

But there was no taste of bitter almonds, only the acrid tang of blood. He moved his tongue against the capsule. It hadn't broken. He was surprised at the relief that flooded through him.

"Say another word and I'll tape your mouth shut," John said, wrenching him upright. "Now, get moving."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** A flash of brilliant dogged Ruth, just for Camillo…

* * *

"We've got them," Beth shouted across the Grid, from where she stood behind Tariq. "The Chinese – we've got them."

Ruth ran to her side, Malcolm close on her heels. "Where?"

Beth pointed to the images of three Chinese nationals: a woman and two men. "They're booked on a cargo boat out of Dover. They've changed the names they're travelling under – they've got new passports from somewhere. But it's them all right. The ship's manifest says they're travelling with crates for export."

"Where's the boat headed?" Dimitri asked, "And what colours is she sailing under?"

"Danish," Beth supplied. "And it's heading for Tangier, leaving tomorrow morning. Easy enough to slip aboard a Chinese-flagged ship from there. No one would even notice."

There was a flurry of activity as Beth and Dimitri set about closing the port. Ruth stared at the screen, at the faces of the Chinese security agents who could so easily bring the world down around her ears.

"No," she muttered, leaning forward to key in a couple of commands, bringing up a map of the south coast.

"Ruth?" Malcolm said, "What is it?"

She shook her head, concentrating. "This doesn't make sense. Harry Pearce is the biggest haul they've had in decades. They won't interrogate him here, and they won't dawdle. They'll want to get him out as fast as possible. They'll want to get him to China. A boat's no good. We'd find it, board it."

"What, then?" Beth asked, holding her phone away from her ear. "A plane? We've got alerts out everywhere – if they try that, we'll catch them. Nothing gets through an airport without security checks anymore."

Dimitri looked up. "What about cargo routes? They must be aware of the holes in our systems, after all the recent news."

"God," Beth said, "Dimitri's right. It's no secret anymore that we can't screen everything. And if they have got crates…"

Ruth still hadn't moved her eyes from the map. "No," she said again. "No, it's too obvious, and it's too easy for us to shut every airport in the Britain. They know that. It's not a plane. They need flexibility: they need to be able to change their plans at the last minute." She looked up at Malcolm. "A helicopter. They must have a helicopter. "

There was a fraction of silence, and then Dimitri said, "God, you could be right."

"I _am_ right. And they're not taking Harry out of London to get to it. They're here. They're right here." She leaned over the desk. "Tariq, start looking for buildings they could use for a landing."

"There are hundreds of helipads-"

"It won't be a helipad. It'll be something unmarked. Something not on our database. Look at constructions that have only topped out in the last week. It'll be somewhere close. The less distance they have to travel in the open, the less chance they'll be intercepted. Try Docklands. Or – or the Olympic Village. Didn't they finish the first of the accommodation blocks recently? Beth, Dimitri – start looking at chartered choppers in the last few days. Somewhere local. Maybe not even chartered: maybe stolen. It'd need enough range to clear our airspace, at least enough to re-fuel on a boat somewhere in international waters."

Malcolm picked up a phone. He dialed and then spoke briefly. A moment later he looked up at her. "CO19 are ready to go."

"Come on, Tariq, _come on_…"

"I've got it!" The young tech stabbed a finger at the screen. "A new Holiday Inn, being built less than a mile from the site of the Olympic complex. It's the only new building to have topped out in the last two weeks with a roof that's flat enough and strong enough to take the load."

Ruth felt her heart jolt into freefall. "That has to be it," she whispered. "It has to be."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** The end. I hope you think it works. Kudos would end the season three paragraphs before I do here, but I didn't think you'd like it if I did that.

* * *

John cut the plastic cuffs from Harry's wrists before they began their ascent to the roof. Harry didn't try anything – there was no room to manoeuvre in the narrow concrete corridor, and anyway, his captor had the advantage. They didn't speak as they climbed, shoes clanging against the utilitarian iron steps.

Once they reached the top, John forced the door by blowing out the lock with a bullet. _A dangerous move_, Harry thought, but didn't say. Nine times out of ten pulling a stunt like that will get you killed with a ricochet.

Outside, the wind was strong. It cut across the rooftop, stealing his breath with a vengeance. They were high. Around them, at a distance, the tower blocks of London reached for the sky. It was clear the building had only recently been completed: stray construction materials littered the freshly spread concrete.

John pushed the door shut behind them, and then motioned for Harry to move out into the open.

"Help me move the debris," he ordered, over the wind. "Get it all out of the way. Try anything, and I'll kneecap you."

Harry looked around as he kicked away a few pieces of wood, and realised there was no escape. Rescue was out of the question, too – even if CO19 were hot on their tails at this moment, there was no way they'd make it up those stairs in time.

The sound of a helicopter whirred in the distance, growing closer. Harry looked up, squinting into the late afternoon sun as a black dot hove into view. The sound of its blades grew louder and louder. He felt the barrel of John's gun press once more against the base of his skull.

"End of the road, Harry."

Harry didn't answer. He watched the helicopter grow larger and larger in the sky.

* * *

"There has to be more than one access point!" Ruth was sitting in the back of one of CO19's four-wheel drives, looking at an iPad loaded with the blueprints of the new hotel.

"There's no need for more," Tariq told her, over the phone, as the speeding car took a corner and she battled to stay upright. "They're not planning to have a helipad. This is-"

"Alright, alright." She cut him off, looking up at the unit commander. "You'll just have to take the long route."

They screeched into the dust of the construction site. Ruth leaned forward in her seat, straining to look up at the sky. Her heart somersaulted as she saw a helicopter, still distant but approaching fast.

_We'll never make it. It's too far, it's too-_

The cars screeched to a halt outside the building. They found the stairs. Fifteen armed men pounded up the ringing metal, one unarmed woman at their rear.

* * *

Harry shut his eyes against the storm of dust sent up by the chopper's blades. It landed fifty feet in front of them, it's door already open. He felt John nudge the gun against his head as Maya came into view. One of the Chinese was shouting something. Something had spooked them. Harry wondered what it was, and his first instinct was to stall. He tarried, pushing back against John's gun, using his weight to slow them down.

John's arm went around his neck. "What do you think you're playing at?"

"Hurry," shouted the Chinese, as he pushed Maya onto the roof from the helicopter. "The British are here. No time."

John struggled with Harry, forcing him forward. The Chinese turned to a colleague and barked an order to a second man. Together they jumped on to the roof, running forward to grab him. Harry was no match for both of them. They dragged him toward the chopper, each holding one of his arms tightly as they manhandled him into it.

Then there was the sound of gunfire, and a piercing scream. He looked around to see John splayed across the concrete. His blood spurted into the dust as more bullets began to fly. Maya screamed again, dropping to her knees with her hands over her ears as the helicopter tried to take off. Its blades whipped faster and faster.

CO19 were pouring onto the roof, some running toward the chopper, some kneeling to take a better shot.

The Chinese began firing back. The two men who had held him let go as they reached for their weapons. The helicopter lifted off, rising above the roof, one foot, two feet, three, four, five…

Harry seized his chance. He jumped. He hit the concrete off-balance, crumpling before he had a chance to put his hands out. His jaw connected with the roof, hard.

* * *

The commotion began before Ruth had reached the top of the stairs. She could hear gunfire, the shouts of the men who had surged ahead of her, the whine of the helicopter's blades rotating, faster and faster.

Her booted feet clanged against the metal stairs. She almost slipped as she finally reached the top, throwing herself forward and through the door onto the roof outside.

There was dust everywhere, clouds of it. Ruth spun in a circle, but couldn't see Harry. The helicopter was rising steadily away from them and for a moment she thought he was still aboard.

But then she saw him.

Harry was lying on his side, not moving. His knees were drawn toward his chest. His hands were clenched into fists, as if his muscles had entered spasm.

The world slowed to a third speed. Sound faded to the distant edges of her mind. Ruth stared across the concrete as the wind whipped her hair around her head. Flurries of dust still rose in choking motes, threatening to blind her, but she didn't blink.

Around her, CO19 officers were still wielding their weapons, feet pounding across the roof. Maya crouched beside John's body, hands behind her head, sobbing. The helicopter ascended into the sky, it's blades slicing the air with a recurring, background _whump_, but the bullets had stopped flying. No sense bringing an aircraft down over London.

Ruth stood, rooted to the spot.

The sun was setting. Fingers of gold light were reaching from the horizon, turning the city sky pink and then orange, and then the deepest, purest blue. It was beautiful.

And then Harry began to move. He struggled slowly to his feet. He tried to put weight on his left ankle, and nearly fell. She saw him bend over, open his mouth, fingers probing, pulling at something. Blood tainted his lips as he wrenched out the false tooth. He studied it for a moment, before flinging it away.

She saw him look around. His shadow was long against the ground. She saw him take in John's body, Maya's trauma. She saw him look up to the sky, at the helicopter, now a mere black dot fading into the glory of the evening. Ruth saw him turn, and see her. She saw him stare.

And then, eventually, she saw him smile.

* * *

_And you'll never know, dear  
__just how much I loved you.  
__You probably think this was  
__just my big excuse.  
__But I stand committed  
__to a love that came before you.  
__And the fact that I adore you  
__is just one of my truths._

_So I'm going home  
__to please the one I so love pleasing  
__and I don't expect  
__you'll have much sympathy  
for my grieving.  
__But I guess that this is the price  
__that we pay  
__for the privilege  
__of living for even a day  
__in a world with so many things  
__worth believing in._

Ani DiFranco – _School Night_

[END]


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**A/N:** Okay, so I gave in to my fanficcy instincts… Thank you for all the reviews, I really do appreciate you taking the time.

* * *

Harry leaned heavily on the crutch as he straightened up from setting down Scarlett's food. As much as he hated having to use it, privately he had to admit he was relieved to have it. In years past, a broken ankle wouldn't have proven much of a hindrance to Harry Pearce. Now, it had the potential to stop his life in its tracks.

_You're too old for all this._

Moving to the kitchen table, he grabbed his wine glass and took a mouthful. The hole in his gum was still tender, but at least it had finally stopped bleeding. The two stitches holding the tear shut appeared to be doing their job.

He was tired, but then that wasn't surprising. The day had been long, fraught and arduous, and at several points during it Harry had thought it was going to be his last. He was still trying to process everything that had happened. He was still, in fact, trying to stitch together the discrepancies between Lucas North and John Bateman. The part of him that didn't want to join the two grieved his dead friend.

He hadn't had much time to speak to Ruth following CO19's intervention. There had been the matter of trying to intercept the Chinese, sorting out the hysterical Maya, and getting himself fixed up. She'd disappeared not long after the showdown on the rooftop. He'd wanted to call her, wanted to thank her for her fantastic intuition… for being there, actually. For giving him that image of her, standing like a beacon in the dust.

Seeing her at that moment had been so unexpected. She should have been back on the Grid, wearing her headphones, listening to the event at one remove, not standing there, large as life, just meters away. And her face… he wasn't sure what he read there, other than shock. They'd stood there, as the melee danced around them, as if they'd been turned into stone, and the mere sight of her had made him so happy.

And then someone had demanded his attention, and when he'd looked next, she'd gone.

He wondered, suddenly, if she regretted finding him in time. Ruth Evershed was built like he was… incapable of not fulfilling her duty. She would have done so despite her anger, her hurt. Maybe she'd done what she could to locate him, worked her magic in saving his life… but merely out of duty, and perhaps after all, her unsmiling face in that moment spoke less of shock and more of regret.

Harry sat, heavily, weighed down by the turn of his thoughts. Not that what she felt should matter. She was alive, and the country was secure. The two things he cared most about in the world were safe for another day. Whatever else circled around those two facts was irrelevant.

He thought again about the possibility of retirement. It was the sensible option. But then he would have to live without seeing her face every day, and Harry wasn't sure he could bear the prospect of that again.

When the bell went he hobbled to the door, grabbing his wallet on the way. After everything he'd endured over the past 24 hours, he'd decided he deserved a curry. To hell with the extra pounds. Life was too bloody short to worry about one's waistline.

He opened the door, leaning on it as he looked down, searching for the twenty he knew was in there somewhere. "That was quick. £18, wasn't it?"

"Sorry?"

Her voice brought the world to a standstill. He looked up, sharply, taking in the heavy coat, how she was holding it tightly around herself.

"Ruth."

She nodded, glancing away. "I – I should have called…"

"No – no, it's fine. Come in, please."

He shifted awkwardly out of the way, still leaning on the door. Ruth walked past him, taking several steps into the hallway, and then stopped, keeping her back to him. Harry shut the door, nonplussed.

"I'd take your coat, but I don't think I can keep my balance," he said, apologetically, to her back. "Please do make yourself at home, though."

She still didn't say anything, didn't move.

"Ruth?"

"I don't – I don't really know why I'm here," she said, her voice muffled. "I didn't mean to come, I just… found myself here."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. "Can I… can I get you something?" he asked, for want of anything better. "A drink?"

He went to move past her, and she turned, looking up at him. He was shocked to see that her face was streaked with tears.

"Oh, Ruth," he said. "What is it? What can I do?"

She shook her head, lifting one hand to wipe her face. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Harry reached out with the arm that wasn't encumbered by the crutch and pushed her, gently, toward the warmth of the kitchen. "Don't be. Come on, let me get you-"

"No," she said, haltingly. "No, I mean – I'm sorry, Harry. I'm _sorry_."

He stopped, looking down into her face. He knew what she meant, and saw how it had hurt her, the memory of what she had said. Harry's heart constricted for her pain. "It doesn't matter," he said, softly.

"It does," she whispered. "It was so terrible. How could I-"

He shook his head. "Ssh… ssh… Ruth, just don't-"

"You know I didn't mean it, don't you?"

He stared at her. Harry opened his mouth, but had nothing to say. He hadn't known. He'd assumed she meant she was sorry she'd voiced it, not-

She dropped his gaze, looking down as fresh tears splashed from beneath her eyelids. "I don't know how to deal with it, Harry. Everything is so wrong."

It took him a while to find his voice. In the meantime, he pulled her gently toward him, resting his chin on the top of her head. Harry stroked her hair, feeling her heart thump beside his. After a moment he pulled back, moving his hand to lift her chin.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her eye. He tasted the salt of her tears, and understood that they were not for him alone.

"I thought you were gone," she said, as if her broken heart had shattered some more. "I thought you were gone, and I'd-"

He moved his lips to hers, kissing her gently as she fell silent. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm always here."

He felt her wrap her arms around him. They stayed like that for a long time.

[END]


End file.
